Hurtful Passion
by Foxhood Robincloud
Summary: I did love you so, Mr. Nanaki. {LEMON}


**_A/N: Further along in this story, disturbing human/pigeon sex shall ensue._**

 _ **Dearest sweet reader, proceed at your peril. You have been warned.** _

* * *

Mr. Nanaki is dead.

What's done is done.

But this story is not about Mr. Nanaki's death. This story is about Mr. Nanaki's life, and the wonderful moments we've shared and shall continue to share. Besides, a part of him still lives on, inside of me.

This is our story.

* * *

02/10/2189. Sophomore is over. I'll always remember that day, when I pulled Mr. Nanaki out from his classroom down to the schoolyard.

" _Sir… I like you. Is that… is that all right?"_

Under the faint light of early dawn, I confessed. I related to him the emotions that had sprouted within me, swelling and fructifying over four semesters of homeroom and calculus levels I through IV. But my button quail professor had other ideas. Gently, he spurned me, on the grounds that he was not yet ready to accept my love.

" _I will be waiting here at this school, forever. If after you've grown up a little you still feel the same way… I'll be here for you."_

" _Sir, that's…"_

" _I don't like to make idle promises, but… I'm sure you'll grow into a wonderful person, Tosaka. So let's wait until then."_

" _Yes, sir…!"_

And despite the tears that welled in me, despite the understanding that I wasn't yet good enough for my mentor, my role model and also the object of highest affection in my heart… for once in my life, I felt truly happy.

Why was I so irrevocably drawn to the soporific quail, my senior? I suppose I have always prized intelligence and rationality, and Mr. Nanaki had always embodied those values to me. I used to sit at the front of his classroom, deeply contemplating the small avian form before me. When Mr. Nanaki would nod off during a lecture, I would wonder what he was dreaming of. Was he solving some secret mathematical proof, or testing the equations that governed the physical world? Did his thoughts ever wander to his students? Perhaps he wasn't thinking anything at all. I understood little of his thought process beyond the classroom, due to his avoidance in regards to sharing his personal life. For example, I once found a photograph that belonged to him, the entire portrait blotted out with black marker. It was as though there were this perpetual gap in my knowledge of him. Nonetheless, I always felt that the silence between us was a communicative one.

But with freshman and sophomore over, I was forced to move on. With a new school cycle came new classes and teachers. Frequently, Mr. Nanaki and I would bump into one another in the hallways, and exchange tender smiles. More than once, I would spend time in his classroom, correcting the freshmen's assignments while sipping sweet mango tea. His favorite. Thus, my junior and senior years, too, passed in relative happiness.

Thoughts of Mr. Nanaki thus spurred me forward, and I graduated _summa cum laude_ from St. Pigeonation's Institute with a double major in math and physics. I remember the pride in his beady quail's eyes on the night of my graduation. Tightly pressing his small, feathered body against my hunter-gatherer's bosom, I promised to him that I would return. That night, I vowed to grow into that "wonderful person" he was sure that I'd become.

I went on to attend Columbidae University for my master's, then doctorate, in the field of theoretical mathematics. I read volume after volume of completely unabridged texts on advanced transcendental functions. My wisdom skyrocketed, albeit at the cost of a certain amount of vitality. I remained as I had always been; an awkward, isolated girl, for my studies did not leave me much time to hone my charisma. Following this final graduation, during which I once again received highest distinctions for outstanding performance, I rejected all offers for post-doctorate research. There was something far more important that I first had to do.

I had not set foot in St. Pigeonation's for all of five years. Striding down the halls on my way to classroom 2-3, I was flooded with warm memories. About the school, nothing had changed. Meanwhile, I was older. My thought processes had matured. Even my hunter-gatherer curves had become shapelier over the years. But the moment that I bounded through the door of class 2-3, the hands of the clock spun back to my early days at St. Pigeonation's. Here I was again, in that room where Mr. Nanaki and I spent countless hours sharing knowledge and wisdom in perfect intellectual unison.

"Mr. Nanaki!" I beamed.

The small quail was seated at his desk, beholding a large stack of exams. The corners of his beak curved up into a great smile as he noticed me.

"Ah, Miss Tosaka! So you have returned, after all these years."

His feathers were pure white as always. His voice, albeit a little hoarser now, soothed and enveloped me just as it had once done in the classroom. My eyes were drawn to his firm, solid beak, which had thinned just a little but which were still every bit as alluring.

I ran up to him while he hopped towards me. The embrace was executed somewhat awkwardly, quails being such small creatures and all. I had him in my arms, enveloping his small body while he slid one wing around my neck. He still carried the unmistakeable aroma of bleach. I inhaled deeply, trying to map this scent deep inside of my brain. Pressing him against the crook of my shoulder, my heartbeat quickened with the contact.

At last, we let go.

"I… had not expected to see you again, Miss Tosaka." There was a tremor in his mild, gentle voice.

"I waited all that time, studying so hard, Mr. Nanaki. I thought of you every day. Didn't you know?"

I then proceeded to shove a sachet of millet seeds into his wing. "A gift to you, sir!"

He contemplated, for a moment, the proffered gift.

"Ah, so you remembered that I like these… How touching." His voice trailed off, gaining a rather melancholic ring. Graciously, he placed it on top of the stack of student examinations. "Anyhow, yes. It is good to see you, at last…"

He smiled, weakly.

"Forgive me for my lack of hospitality, Miss Tosaka. I… had not prepared myself for this. I…. had not anticipated that you would return." A pause. "But now that you are here, let us do a bit of catching up. And pray, relate to me your new endeavors throughout the past few years."

"Of course!" I reached out, and entwined my fingers into his wing feathers. He did not move them away. "Sir, do you still drink mango tea? I do quite miss the times we spent together, correcting the freshmen's assignments."

"Of course. Sweet mango tea is most wonderful. Perchance you would like to share another cup, after all these years? This time, let it be at my place. You shall be my guest."

An invitation, extended so sweetly. I accepted. We walked out of St. Pigeonation's and to his house, hand in wing.

How I did love Mr. Nanaki, that quiet and intelligent button quail.

* * *

 ** _A/N #2: Up until now, the story reads like a (somewhat) normal fanfic. Good. You can now stop reading, and remain sane._**

 ** _If you continue reading, well, whatever happens to you is your fault, not mine. That is because the story is about to self-destruct into something very, very horrible. You have been warned._**

 _ **May Lord Pudi be with you.** _

* * *

It's the first time I've ever set foot in his house, a small but homely abode.

"Miss Tosaka, I have prepared the t-"

Mr. Nanaki stops. His head has turned in time to behold my entirely naked body.

That's right. I took all my clothes off while he was in the kitchen, making the tea. Bra, undies, everything.

He gazes at me with a quizzical expression. It's the same look that comes across his face when he is in the midst of contemplating an abstract mathematical principle, and also when he is about to nod off. I've always wondered how birds perceive the human body, and what particular standards they hold in regards to sexual attractiveness. How does hair compare to feathers? Is my significantly larger form an advantage or disadvantage to my desirability? Could I ever hope to be more to Mr. Nanaki than a giant plucked turkey with unnatural proportions and hands in place of wings?

Standing naked in his kitchen, my own answer is clear: I want him. Yes, I want him, more than anything in the world. That button quail's as cute as a button. Beholding his bleach-white feathers and small inquisitive eyes, a peculiar and powerful emotion is aroused in me. I have never, ever felt the same for anybirdie else. I had waited five years, procured two entire degrees in a subject matter both abstract and complex, all for this moment.

My desire, it burns to be consummated.

The snow-white quail lets the teacup drop from his wing with a clatter as I scoop him in my arms once more. With his body securely pressed against the valley of my now entirely naked bosom, I stroke his small feathered head with a pinkie.

"Oh Mr. Nanaki," I coo. "I… do like you so, Mr. Nanaki."

I tilt my head down for the kiss.

He doesn't say anything. Stays quiet quiet. Doesn't lean in, but doesn't lean away.

When his beak slides out from my mouth, still dripping with the saliva I had lathered on it with my tongue, he coughs a little. And then, a sneeze. How cute. The expression on his slightly-wet face is that of shock.

"Was this is your first time?" I ask, gently.

He nods, at a loss for words.

"I mean, you've never kissed?"

He shakes his feathered head no.

"Not even with anybirdie else? A dove? Another quail? A partridge?"

Still no.

"Me neither. Is this really going to be your first time?"

He turns his head away, closer against my featherless breast, apparently embarrassed. Not that I could tell; birds don't really blush, and even if they did, it would be sort of difficult to see under all those feathers.

"It's my first time too," I say softly as I caress his long quail neck. "I waited all these years for you, Mr. Nanaki. You, and only you. I've never taken anybirdie else, or any hunter-gatherer for that matter."

"M-miss Tosaka… I…"

"Shh, don't worry. You don't have to say anything," I reassure him, coating his face with another layer of my oral fluids for good measure. His body is a little less tense this time. He appears to be relaxing into the deep, passionate interspecies kiss.

"A calming, wise and guiding presence. A beacon of knowledge. That's what you symbolize to me." I let a finger rise to stroke the feathers on the underside of his beak and now moist breast, after breaking from the second kiss. The feathers are soft but firm, gliding under my fingers gently. "And now, I shall return the favor."

I shift his body so that his beak is now pressed against my nipple. I guide his neck with my fingers, until the open beak is now mashed against the perky darkened mound. He must be real comfortable now, because as soon as I place him there, his body goes kind of soft and small snoring sounds emerge from his nostrils. Oh, Mr. Nanaki. You were always the most soporific snow-white quail. Perhaps, deep down, I've got a somnophilic penchant... who knows?

And now I'm on top of him, pressing him against the low, bird-sized kitchen counter mashing his form beneath me with my pelvis. Up and down I grind, allowing his face-up, somnolent body to slide from my pelvis to my stomach and back to my pelvis. This obviously arouses him from slumber, because he begins to thrash and flail quite agitatedly beneath me.

"M-m-miss Tosaka…" he faintly moans.

I stop grinding, and release him from my hold. I set him back on the kitchen counter.

"I love you," I tell him.

The small quail bears a wounded expression, as though his entire being has been struck through and through with pain. And suddenly, I realise that he is crying. Droplets of tears run along the feathered edges of his eyes, mixing into my hunter-gatherer's saliva that still moistens his face. Had I gone too fast? This was our first time, after all. Did I do something wrong out of inexperience? Or maybe he had been enjoying it until I went a bit too rough for his small, hollow quail's bones… at this age of his no less. Either way, I know exactly what I would now have to do to make things better.

"Oh, Mr. Nanaki, please don't cry…" I console. "Here... Let me do something for you."

I ease his small body back against the kitchen counter. His talons are up in the air, a confused look on his face. I had read extensively on bird reproduction, to make sure I could get this right.

"W-what are you…"

"Shh, shh. Relax… you'll like this."

The cloaca, I find it, and push in a finger.

With one hand holding down his wings and body, I give him the attention that I have always been yearning to express. His tiny quail's body trembles with each movement. He's never done this, never had this done to him. The cloaca is a beautiful thing. Something akin to a rectum and urethra in one, all of which can be stimulated in one go. A politically incorrect hunter-gatherer might even say… two birds with one stone.

And so I plunge in my finger, again and again. He's confused, losing his bearings, but that's okay. I'm teaching him, I'm teaching you about love Mr. Nanaki my sweet button quail. I smile at him.

"So tight…" I groan. Sweet excitement is rushing down to my own hunter-gatherer's genitals.

And suddenly, I feel it, something warm, sticky and thick, rushing out from within and spreading around my wriggling finger. A moan escapes Mr. Nanaki's beak also as his body quivers, wings thrashing with the newfound sensations that are now overtaking him. And I'm happy, truly happy, the happiest I've been in a long, long while… perhaps even more than I have ever been in my entire life.

"That was an orgasm," I tell him.

I take another good look at him, watching his supine, reactive body slowly relax. His talons give a few more kicks in the air, and his wings a few last flutters. Unfortunately, tears continue to slide out from his eyes. Something inside of me is attuned to this, and I can only best express the next feeling that comes over me as strong empathy mixed with intense sexual arousal.

"Now it's my turn, Mr. Nanaki… Maybe you'll like this next move even better." I say this as I stroke him, spreading the sweet little mess that he had just made all over his underside.

Except, he falls back to sleep. Of course. Should have expected it. I jostle him a bit, but no. That distinctive snoring sound once again escapes from his nostrils. His eyes, though still open, are unfocused. He's in another plane right now, and who knows what he is thinking of.

That's okay.

I grab his sleeping quail's body by the flanks, fingers wrapped around him, thumbs on either side of his belly squeezing for a better hold. My own wildly excited body desires satisfaction most urgently.

Standing with feet shoulder-wide, I bring Mr. Nanaki down so that his head points down to the floor, while his quail bottom is oriented towards my own hunter-gatherer's bottom. Then I squat, to better make room. I bring him up, until his gooeyness makes contact with my gooeyness.

The contact is amazing. I slide him against me, in a sort of scissoring position. His gently lubricated cloacal feathers, rubbing back and forth the right and wrong way against me, offer a most delicious stimulation.

The tactility is mind-blowing.

But then it starts to get a bit too intense, and my legs aren't holding up very well. Like I said, I had to sacrifice a sizeable amount of vitality in exchange for wisdom during my studies. And so, I allow myself to get down on the kitchen floor.

We're now in a sort of missionary position, me on my back and his body held between my bent and spread-out knees.

"M-m-miss Tosaka!" he utters. At last, he has reawakened. He blinks for a moment, mind apparently still processing it all. Does he like this? Does he want more, too?

His gaping cloaca mashes again and again against my parts. My left hand grabs the quail's cute tail while the right hand steers the motions.

"Harder," I groan. I adjust the speed and intensity of the rubs to match. It's a pity that he's so small. I can't get him over me all at once.

"H-Hiyoko!" he moans between clenched beak.

"Mmm… Mr. Nanaki…!"

"H-Hiyoko!" he groans again, this time with greater urgency. "Aaahhhhhh…"

Another spurt of sticky fluid drips out from his swollen, tight cloaca. It mixes into my own fluids as I continue to grind and mash, now with added back and forth motions from my own pelvis.

But that still wasn't enough. I wanted more; I wanted him inside, too. I needed him deeper, still deeper, so deep that the two of us would become one forever and ever in the way that only a hunter-gatherer girl and older white-feathered quail could be… oh yes I desired him oh so badly.

Suddenly, an uncontrollable impulse overcomes me.

In one swift motion, I let one hand grab him, grab his head only by the neck, his small quail's head inside one tight fist. I spin his body around, one hundred and eighty degrees about the horizontal axis, until his beak is pointed towards my female hunter gatherer's orifice.

I push him in, beak first.

His quail's head fills me at once, to the brim, so tightly and comfortably and deeply. I sigh in immediate relief.

I've got one hand cupping Mr. Nanaki from behind, thumb plugged inside his gaping, dripping orifice, other hand wrapped around the neck, fine-tuning the motions. Delightful plunging and plopping sounds fill the air as he slides in and out, fully lubricated by my juice. An additional gurgling sound, I hear it but don't register it, because I'm captivated by the new sensations that are overcoming my innocent hunter-gatherer's body. The hardness of his beak offers a delightful contrast as it pokes, while the roughness of his feathers increase the coefficient of friction between us.

"Hhhh-" I hear. I feel his beak repeatedly opening and closing inside of me, wings thrashing on the outside and rubbing my thighs in a most sensual way. It tickles, internally and externally.

"Oh, Mr. Nanaki," I groan. "More, Mr. Nanaki! More!"

In and out I guide him. He glides so smoothly, the roughness of his beak and the softness of his head feathers sliding back and forth while his wing feathers continue to rub my thighs on the outside. My excited body is stimulated in all sorts of exciting ways I never imagined possible, that even the most expensive vibrating silicone dildo could never offer.

At one point, Mr. Nanaki suddenly stops thrashing, and gets quiet. Either his entire body has been overtaken by the sensuality of the experience, or he's fallen asleep once more. Anyhow, I take this opportunity to intensify the speed of my strokes as my juices drip and drip from my entrance.

The orgasm is delicious. Every bit as I had imagined, from what I had seen on the hunter-gatherer's videos which I had studied so intensely. Ripples of ecstatic pleasure, wave after wave after wave of unimaginable bliss.

My virginity taken, my first orgasm had, I sigh in contentedness and let my legs relax.

Mr. Nanaki slides out.

I lift him and press him once more against my naked breasts, his little body slick with my thick wet juices. We lie there on the floor together, just like that, for a good while. I love him, I love him with all my beating heart, and this moment we are sharing is one that I will cherish forever and ever and ever.

Mr. Nanaki's body remains still, still against me. He likes to sleep so much, that sweet little thing. Eventually, the floor becomes too cold and hard to bear for my naked back. So I get up, gently place him back on the table, and pour myself a cup of mango tea from the pot that he had prepared.

As I sip the deliciously sweet tea, I find that the small quail is still sleeping. So I poke him, to wake him up.

Except, he doesn't.

Mr. Nanaki doesn't really look asleep, either. His head is poised at an odd angle, and his eyes, which usually remain open while he's sleeping, are now half-closed. The orbs of his have taken on a rather glassy look. The sound in the room is that of pure, dead silence.

What have I done?

 _He's not dead_ , I try to convince myself. _Just dozing off again, that sleepy head._

Not only is his head slick with my vaginal fluid down to the base of the neck, his cloaca is also dripping with its own liquid which has now taken on a different consistency than the kind from our earlier throes of passion. This new substance is pasty off-white, mixed in with semi-solid, brownish bits.

I start to wail. I wail, and I wail, and I wail but to no avail. No, Mr. Nanaki's not coming back. Nothing will change that. After gently setting down the still-warm cup of tea onto the tabletop, I hug his small, utterly limp and dripping body tight against me. I further moisten his feathers with the rippling streams of tears that drip from my swollen red eyes.

I loved Mr. Nanaki. I loved him so much that I drowned him deep inside of me… literally. And now he has gone to sleep. For good.

Passion is hurtful.

* * *

Dr. Iwamine helped me mount the body. I wasn't about to lose Mr. Nanaki, not after having finally managed to reunite with him. After all these years, the doctor's portly partridge shape had only gotten portlier, drab colors a little drabbier. Dr. Iwamine is wonderful with his wings. His handiwork is unparalleled. I was greatly relieved to find him still in the infirmary during the wee hours of the night when I arrived, panting and heaving from the run. The Chukar partridge greeted me welcomingly, looking up from his desk where he had been tinkering with some sort of sample.

And now, Mr. Nanaki is with me. Always, forever and ever and ever.

I didn't let any of him go to waste, you see.

The mount was the most important part of the project. Dr. Iwamine offered the choice between taxidermy and embalming, but the thought of my loved one in a jar, feathers slick with formaldehyde, brought back certain unwanted memories. I settled with only the brain receiving embalmment. It now sits in a plastic bag in the cryogenic freezer at the back of the infirmary, in case future technology greatly improves and his mind may thus be revived. But I couldn't count on it.

And so, taxidermy it was. The body had to be freeze-dried, and painstakingly handled. It took months, but Dr. Iwamine did surprise me with his expert handling. It was well worth the wait. I chose a classic pose: Mr. Nanaki standing tall as though giving a lecture, head slightly cocked to the side, a gentle and somewhat absent-minded look on his unfocused glass eyes. The eyes are most definitely the weak point of the mount. I selected the best quality glass orbs, even had them custom-made by an ocular prosthetic company to best match his likeness. But an imitation, however expertly made, can never match the real. With a bit of imagination, I can still fill in the gaps. Mr. Nanaki now watches over me in a glass case on the shelf beside my bed, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake – whichever I decide at the moment. I gaze at his endearing button quail form, forever overlooking me with sweet wisdom, as I myself drift into the gentle arms of slumber.

Three quills are missing from the mount. One would barely notice, because Dr. Iwamine did such a wonderful job of rearranging the remaining feathers to hide the defect. I notice, but only because I've memorised every last detail of his body, my wonderful Mr. Nanaki. Dr. Iwamine referred me to a master quill pen craftsbird, a private contact of his. I've only set aside one of the brilliant white quill pens for use. The other two are currently stored in a safe, for backup.

In the taxidermy process, insides have to come out. Naturally. And like I said, I didn't let any bit of Mr. Nanaki go to waste. It was too difficult to bear seeing his skinned, fleshy innards with my own eyes. The physical world is crass, I say. Unintellectual. So Dr. Iwamine did the dirty work. He must have put the remaining flesh into a blender of some sort. All I had to do was lie down in the infirmary bed, a clear nasogastric tube inserted through my nostrils, as the liquefied concoction was pumped directly to my stomach. At last, Mr. Nanaki was inside of me, so very literally, incorporated into the hundreds of trillions of cells that compose my hunter-gatherer's body.

I didn't keep his bones, though. I could have also had the skeleton mounted. But there's something too intimate about bones, in my opinion. Reminds me too much of death. So I burned them, had Dr. Iwamine put them through the school incinerator. The ashes are in a box in my basement, beside a tin of dried mango silvers and tea leaves.

Mr. Kauzaki lives on, so to speak.

Before long, a slot opened at St. Pigeonation's for a new mathematics professor. It turned out that Mr. Nanaki was about to retire that very year, and so his absence was expected by all. As a result of my previous affiliation with the Academy and my stunning academic profile, I became the first hunter-gatherer staff member at St. Pigeonation's. I'm sure that Mr. Nanaki would have recommended me, had he been able to. To this day, I play it in my mind's eye: the smile on my button quail mentor's face as he congratulates me on my new role, blessing me as his most adored successor.

I did everything I could to take on Mr. Nanaki's unfinished projects. Among them was a novel mathematical proof that he had been elaborating for quite some while. I imagine that he was never able to complete it, simply due to his intense and frequent sleeping. I am now very close to completing the work. With luck on my side, the publication may come out later next year, and his name shall appear next to mine under the authorship. You could say that the student has surpassed the teacher. However, in no way was that ever my intent. I simply wanted to allow Mr. Nanaki's memory to live on, through an acclaimed contribution to the field of theoretical mathematics.

It was refreshing, to return to St. Pigeonation's as a teacher this time around. I now have a most wonderful time lecturing students and grading their work, all the while sipping sweet mango tea in classroom 2-3. I have adjusted well to my new life, though at times I dearly miss catching sight of a certain bleach-white button quail, dozing off in his natural classroom environment. At certain hours of the day, a wave of poignant emotion might overcome me, that ineffable grief for the bygone days when my love for Mr. Nanaki was pure and unadulterated by the cruelty of the universe.

During such moments, I head down to the infirmary to visit Dr. Iwamine, that mysterious and illustrious Chukar partridge…

* * *

 ** _Moral of the story: Please, do not ever have sex with a quail (or dove or pigeon or Chukar partridge, for that matter). The result will be… hurtful._**

 ** _A/N #3: No birds were harmed in the making of this fic._**

 ** _I… think._**


End file.
